I am thinking about Sarajevo,
and what to have for tea,
of screaming artillery shells
and the lump of flesh and cloth
that was a baby girl,
whether roast potato will do.

I am thinking of U.N. soldiers
handcuffed in munitions dumps,
(undecided, considering burgers)
and the U.N. undecided too;
and the Serbs who are used to dying
smiling into their soup.

Without hesitation
they attack the safe havens.
As I reach for the recipe book
mortars fall on an open market
fifty people die, women and children.
strewn like rags.

I’m flipping from programme to programme
think I might take in a film
but the adverts are shouting ‘roast chicken,’
mega-meals from Kentucky no less.
I wonder if Serbs eat roast chicken
and slouch off in search of my shoes.


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